


Gifts

by OldDVS



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, Only Potter/Snape because of two sentences, no sexy times sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-11 21:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19549627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldDVS/pseuds/OldDVS
Summary: Harry leaves the Dursley's for the last time, shops a lot, and has a nice party to celebrate.  Lots of conversation about the future, and then Draco Malfoy shows up and eavesdrops on chats about wizarding reproduction.





	Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> This has an inadequate ending, wonky point of view changes and is generally in need of some buffing up. May get to that, or not. Written somewhere between 2002 and 2004, if I remember correctly.

Gifts  
by Tara Tory

He was alone in Diagon Alley. Harry Potter stood, blinking in the bright summer sun and looking at the bustling crowd of witches, wizards and their children. He had his usual pang at the sight of happy families, but he took a deep breath and brought his attention down to the note in his hand. The Weasley’s would be late, perhaps as much as an hour. He hoped whatever it was that delayed them wasn’t anything too bad. All Ron’s note said was that it was because of, ‘Aunt Olivia’s usual problem.’

He himself had lied to the Dursley’s. Lied and said that he was to be here at eight to buy his school supplies. He had not wanted to spend another minute under their roof. He’d been packed and ready to go at dawn, almost sick with wanting to be out of there and away.

So here he was, with a whole morning ahead of him. He knew the Weasley’s expected him to wait for them in the Leaky Cauldron, but now would be a perfect time to pick up presents for Ron and Hermione. Christmas was months away, but he wanted presents for his best friends that meant a little more this year. Ron was usually happy with a joke or candy from Hogsmeade, but Hermione was harder to buy for, and he wasn’t quite sure what to get. 

Harry had an unexpected four hours all to himself, and a pocket full of galleons as he had just came from Gringotts. He was also filled with a strange and heady sense of freedom. He was seldom free to make decisions based entirely on his own desires. He could do just as he pleased, take his time and not hurry. 

He was headed for the Quidditch stores–there were two of them now, across the street from each other. But a window display caught his eye, and then another, and he found himself wandering in and out of shops. He also found his attention caught by items he had never had an interest in before. He found himself buying.

There was a magic candle shop, with candles to help you rest and study. Candles that lit themselves as it became dark. Candles to keep doxies away, and candles to entertain small children. He bought the one that helped you concentrate, and also a very pretty thing of beeswax with a rainbow of colors twisted together, just because it appealed to him. 

It occurred to him, rather as an epiphany, that he would be on his own in only ten months. That if he did not give the candle as a gift, then he could keep it and put it on his own mantle or bedside table. He flushed, thinking that he would have his own bed, and that he might not always be in it alone. He’d had that sort of thought quite a bit lately.

Here in Diagon Alley he was allowed to do magic, and so he shrank each purchase as he made it, using the carry-lite spell as well. He bought what caught his fancy. He’d been shopping about an hour when he was hit by another rather startling thought.

He could buy clothing. He didn’t ever have to wear Dudley’s cast-offs again. He found the clothing shops, clustered together at one end of the alley. So much of the clothing seemed to be for older wizards and witches, and even those for younger wizards seemed a bit odd to his Muggle-raised eyes. Harry decided to get what he liked, and not let fashion worry him.

He chose shirts and pants, underwear. Belts and braces. Shoes and stockings. He picked colors which were subdued yet rich, in fabrics that felt good to his skin. He bought enough boxers so that he could have a clean pair every day of the week. And a pair with lollypops on them. For Dumbledore. If Harry could find the courage to given them to the headmaster!

Dursley’s cast-offs were reduced to ash with a flick of his wand, except the shirt, worn in the hopes that the Dursley’s would not give much attention to the other changes. He had to go back and pick up his things, after all. The Weasley’s were to go back with him, get his trunk and take him home for a week, and then put him on the Hogwarts Express with Ron. 

At the end of the morning Harry had to go back to Gringotts and get out more money. He had spent, rather to his complete embarrassment, the entire amount he had gotten out to last him for the year! Yet, for the first time he had clothing he was not ashamed of, a few personal possessions he could call his own, Christmas taken care of, and a startling sense of accomplishment. He even had a present for Molly Weasley to thank her for her hospitality. 

He had things which made his face go red as he remembered buying them. He had informative books. He had useful potions. He had magical condoms and lube. Not that he was thinking of any particular potions master when he bought them. Well, he was, but he knew a hopeless crush when he had one. 

He sat in the Leakey Cauldron, drinking tea and eating cakes and waiting for the Weasleys. His body was making short work of the lovely frosted cakes. His mind was playing with a fantasy.

It was his own bed, although he couldn’t really imagine the rest of the room. On the bedside table was his beautiful rainbow candle, in a silver candle holder. Must remember to get a candle holder, or perhaps someone would get him one for Christmas? Unlikely as that was. But he was in the bed and the candle made a golden glow, and Somebody was in his bed.

A very handsome somebody. Sometimes a famous Quidditch player. Sometimes female and sometimes male. Someone who was eager to kiss him, and drew him into a sweet embrace. Someone who taught him everything he really longed to know, kindly. Without teasing him because he knew so little about it.

“Oi! Harry! We’re here!” Ron enthusiastically clapped Harry on the back, causing the fantasy to disappear in a painful ‘oof!’. Harry looked up. Molly Weasley and Ginny stood behind Ron. Harry stood up and said to them all, “Help me finish off these cakes. Do you want tea?”

They did, and soon they were all sitting around the tiny table, drinking tea and catching up. Then they went and bought all their school supplies. Eventually, even with the spell, Harry was starting to feel the strain of carrying all his purchases by the middle of the afternoon. 

They had stopped shopping for a late lunch, and had an early tea before taking one of the ministry cars to the Dursleys. Harry was glad that it was early and Uncle Vernon was not yet home. It was still definitely odd to walk into the house for the last time. Aunt Petunia glowered at Molly and Ginny, who stood in the entry hall as Ron went upstairs to help Harry bring his trunk and owl cage. In only a few minutes, they were down again. Harry paused on the bottom step and looked at his aunt. Strange to think that he might never see her again. Or Dudley, who stood there frowning at him. Not that he wanted to ever see their faces again, but it emphasized for him the unknown of the future. Which had finally come.

He stood up straight and said. “Thank you. Goodbye.” There were a dozen truths he wanted to shout at them jostling around his brain, but it didn’t seem worth while to say them. It wouldn’t change anything.

“Is that all you’re going to say? After seventeen years?” his aunt asked, sneering at him, at his manners and his lack of social graces. She’d never taught such things, how could she expect him to have them? Almost everything he had acquired along that line came from the Weasley’s and his teachers at school. One of the reasons he had nothing scathing to say was that Molly was right there to hear it. 

“Yes.” Harry said.. “I didn’t think it would be polite to tell the truth, and what would be the point of a polite lie? You never loved me or cared for me, so more than thank you doesn’t seem appropriate. Never gave me anything either, except the clothes Dudley outgrew, a little food and a place to sleep. I used to feel guilty that I wasn’t grateful for that–there’s enough children in the world who have died for lack of them. But I eventually decided that deliberately withholding affection and care was cruel, and you don’t thank someone for being cruel. It was all nothing, and you’re glad enough I’m going. I heard you say so last night, to you husband. You’re going to go out to a nice restaurant tonight and have a feast in celebration that I’m gone. Whatever I have tonight is going to be a feast for me, in celebration of finally going. So what is there to say?” 

As he was speaking, Harry began unbuttoning the oversized shirt he wore. He dropped it to the floor. Under the dingy dingy garment Harry wore his favorite of the new shirts. This one was heavy black silk, sewn in ribbed patterns and tailored to emphasize his shoulders and slim hips. It was tucked into his new pants, which were a perfect match. The change this made in his appearance was startling. He looked handsome, and rather more mature than his age. 

“Very nice, dear. Is that new?” Molly Weasley asked. 

“Ginny, put your eyes back in your head,” Ron said irritably to his sister. 

“Thanks, Aunt Molly. Yes, I bought it today. I know it’s not very practical,” Harry said, looking down at the tight cuff which ended the wide sleeve. 

“It looks lovely.” Molly gave a nod. “Brings out your eyes, dear.”

“Earring would look wicked with that,” Ron observed. Harry looked interested. 

“Your feast is going to be pasta, with chocolate cake for dessert,” Ginny said, taking his arm. “All the family is coming home for it–well, except Bill, he’s still working on that Viking curse until Thursday. Hermione is invited, too.”

Without really thinking about it, they all turned their backs on the Dursleys and walked away while discussing their feast. Harry never looked back to see the envy on Dudley’s face–the boy fancied the shirt, and even more, the food–or the discontent on Aunt Petunia’s face. Petunia was a little stung by that “Aunt Molly,” although she was not quite sure why. She slammed the door. Hard.

Once in the car, Harry turned to Molly and said, “I rather sprang that feast thing on you–I remembered what they’d said and--” he shrugged.

“Well, the pasta and chocolate was in your honor. Even if it isn’t precisely a feast,” Molly said, laughing. 

“Can we make it a feast, Mum? We have butterbeer,” Ron reminded her.

“I could buy ice cream to go with the cake. Let me?” Harry begged.

“It’s your feast, you may if you like,” Molly agreed. “We’ll stop.”

Rather to her surprise, Harry came out of the shop with quite a bit more than the ice cream. “I’ve been learning about shopping,” was all the explanation he gave.

“That it’s fun?” Ron asked. “We’re in big trouble.”

Harry shoved against him, grinned and said, “I had a thought, today. How do you know what you buy is safe? Without any hidden enchantments or anything? I was in the candle store today and thinking how easy it might be to put a mind-influencing scent into the candle and then use it to–I don’t know, have a student disrupt the wards and let someone in. Or the like,” he added, as if he felt guilty of even thinking of ways to assault Hogwarts.

“There’s a spell I will show you. Three of them,” Molly said. “Although nothing is one hundred percent effective, of course. Dark magic can be buried deeply enough for it to avoid revelation spells. Hogwarts had some powerful wards on it, and if your items pass onto the grounds they can be considered relatively safe.” She paused, remembering. “Well, usually.”

“I never realized, when I was a first-year student, what hard work magic is,” Harry said with a sigh as they got underway again.

“It’s hard work, and it never ends,” Molly agreed. “But I think it becomes more interesting as you get older. Like a puzzle. You have all these pieces in the beginning, and it’s rather hard to fit them together because there’s not enough clues. It’s especially so for the Muggle-born,” Molly added. “Then, the bits start to go together. I’ll never forget the first time I realized that the charm I learned in the morning was related to the transfiguration chant I was using in the afternoon. And why. If you’ve studied, you’ll come out of Hogwarts with all the pieces sorted, and a border all around the edges. It’s up to you at that point to fill in as much of the puzzle as you need or can during your life. There are a lot of pieces.”

“Mum!” Ron sounded long-suffering.

“We get this same speech every month or so,” Ginny explained to Harry. 

“It’s fine. Interesting,” Harry said. It was, actually. “Can you tell me about the three spells now?”

“Well, I suppose we have time,” she said, and went through the entire process, demonstrating with her wand on the ice cream and the treats Harry had brought.

They reached home just as Arthur Weasley and Percy arrived, with Hermione arriving soon after on the Knight Bus. Charlie and the twins popped in an hour later and the chaos of a Weasley reunion was soon in full swing. Everyone was pressed into service to expand the table, set it and collect the chairs, which were scattered over the house, and bring in the food.

When they were settled at the table, Arthur Weasley stood up, lifting his glass of butterbeer. “I declare,” he announced solemnly, “that the feast in honor of Harry Potter’s freedom has officially begun!”

Just at that moment there was a pop from the fireplace and someone fell rather violently from the fire onto the rug. 

Half a dozen wands came out because it was Draco Malfoy pushing himself off the floor. He looked as if he had tumbled down a flight of steps, with small scrapes and cuts over his hands and face. He was clutching his wand in one hand and it looked a bit scorched as well.. Soot was liberally smeared over his face and his white shirt. He was not wearing robes, only shirt and trousers. He didn’t even have shoes on his feet.

Draco looked a little shocked to find so many wizards facing him. He quickly composed his face. “I’m seeking a few hours of sanctuary,” he stated in a voice that was too calm, too controlled. “I’m not in trouble. I merely need a few hours out of the sight of certain–individuals.”

The glitter of a truth spell swirled around him. Blue meant he was telling the truth as he knew it. Arthur Weasley had an odd look on his face, as if he knew more than he might speak of, but what he said was, “Welcome, young Malfoy. Join us for dinner. Charlie, if you’d duplicate the Lansford chair?” It was the most sturdy and could take the stress of the duplication spell the best.

“The poor lad can’t come to dinner like that, Arthur!” As she spoke, Molly cast a spell–one she was very familiar with after raising six boys–and he became instantly cleaner. She then transfigured a pair of mittens into slippers and handed them to Draco. “Put those on your poor toes, dear, and sit down. Ginny, hand over a plate. Ron?” she gestured and he got up to get the fork, knife, and a glass. 

Draco took the seat between Ginny and Charlie, and he seemed rather bewildered by the entire scene. He found that if he did not take some of the food as it was passed around that any of the people at the table might take it upon themselves to put a bit of it on his plate. He discovered that eleven people all chatting in a small room made even more noise than several hundred students in Hogwarts main hall. It made his raging headache worse. He managed a few bites of the pasta because he was quite hungry, but before the meal was even half over he was yawning and slumping in his seat.

“Go to the front room, dear, and stretch out on the couch,” Molly ordered. “There’s a blanket under the largest pillow to cover yourself with.”

With a mumble than might have been thanks, Malfoy stumbled off.

“I think our last year is off to an interesting start,” Hermione said, as she scraped up her last bite. Molly Weasley’s food was even better than her mother’s, although she would never say so to her mother. 

“Who do you suppose duffed him up?” Percy asked.

“We won’t talk about that,” their father said.

“Right. Well, I just wonder what’s so bad it would send Draco to hide out at the Burrow. He’s made it clear he has no use for us,” Ron pointed out.

“Ron.” The warning came in his father’s sternest voice. 

“We should just put that boy to bed. We can put him in Ron’s room,” Molly suggested, ignoring the gagging her youngest son was miming. 

They were talking just loud enough so that Draco could hear them in the next room. He was on the edge of sleep, but the sound of his own name kept catching his attention.

“Later, I think, if he stays. He did say he just needed a few hours,” Arthur Weasley reminded them. 

“I’m a bit worried about that boy. Even Harry has never shown up looking quite that battered. Do you suppose his family beats him, too?” Molly asked.

Too? Draco wondered. He was stretched out flat in the next room, eyes closed, but he wasn’t asleep.

“The Dursley’s never beat me, really,” Harry protested.

“No, just locked you in closets, starved you, and verbally abused you. Hardly worth mentioning,” Ron interjected.

Starved? Draco lifted his head a bit, the better able to hear.

“I never have to even look at them again. Don’t go on about it, I’m trying to celebrate,” Harry said, half embarrassed. 

“Yes. Can’t pick your relatives,” Fred pointed out, with a teasing glance at Ron. Ron kicked George, who was conveniently closer than his twin.

“Except for the ones you marry. How’s that going, Percy?” This was from Charlie. It took a moment for the listener to work that out, as he wasn’t familiar with Charlie’s deep voice.

“Penelope wants everything traditional,” Percy said with a sigh. “Which means we can’t get married for a year at least.”

“Nothing wrong with taking your time. You’re still young,” Mr. Weasley pointed out.

“It’s more expensive, though,” Ginny pointed out. “And a little hard on Percy. Having to do all that transfiguration and buying all the ingredients for the wedding potions.”

“Yeah, but she has to make them. Anybody remember how well she did in potions?” George asked. “Could be spending your wedding night as a newt, Pers.”

“Why does she have to make potions?” Harry asked.

Draco quietly snorted to himself. Trust Potter to know absolutely nothing.

It was Hermione who spoke up. “Wizarding weddings have traditions left over from the old days when it was important to make a good alliance. The couple spend a year collecting what they need to start a household together. Then, it’s like an old fairy tale–the bride and groom each have certain tasks to do before and during the wedding. It proves they have a basic level of training and ability. Usually the bride makes a variety of household or useful potions.”

“Very pure blood,” Ron further explained. “But it actually doesn’t mean much in the rich families because they just hire it all done anyway.”

“Hey, being able to hire it done proves something just as important. I’ve got money, baby!” George mocked in an insulting accent.

“Don’t be crude, dear,” Molly Weasley told Fred as he opened his mouth to reply to his brother. Since what he had been going to say was, indeed, crude, he just grinned and obeyed. 

“As I understand it, most wizarding young folk today get married and then set up their households. Wizarding society doesn’t object because marriages–and children–are encouraged for young adults. Which means in this case those twenty to forty years old. We have found out if they wait until later, wizards and witches have less change of actually getting married, and have fewer children. Children are very much wanted,” she added.

“They are?” Harry said. She obviously had a lot she could say about it, and if you didn’t encourage her when the subject was interesting, she sometimes started telling you things which were deadly dull. 

“Well, yes. The birth rate for wizarding families is quite low when you consider the length of time a witch can get pregnant is ten or more years longer than that of Muggle women. Families have fewer children, partly because they think they have a lot of time. The average number of children for a wizarding family is two. Or three.”

“Why is that?” Charlie asked. 

Hermione answered, “Lots of reasons. The statistics are interesting, though,” she went on. “The pure, older families tend to have fewer children. Many have only one, an heir. It prevents the inheritance money from being diluted among several children. And there’s the fact that for some reason the purebred families find it really difficult to reproduce. They have a lot of infant deaths. Then there’s the theory that certain of the old families practice infanticide and only let the most powerful children grow up to reproduce.”

“Dear, we are still at the table,” Molly murmured.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Hermione apologized. “I forget not everyone finds it as fascinating as I do. Being Muggle-born, I researched it when I found that not everyone in wizarding society tolerated people like me. I wanted to know why. It ought to be the other way around, you know.”

“What ought to?” Ron asked.

“They ought to be lining up to marry the Muggle-born. We have more variations in our magical talents–a wider range of abilities.”

“But reproducing with them is more tricky. Muggle-borns have more squibs,” Charlie pointed out.

“Actually, no they don’t, statistically. Not if they marry purebloods. It’s just that they have more children usually, so the amount is larger, but it’s still the same percentage, if you see. About one squib in ten, according to my research.”

“It seems a lot” Molly said thoughtfully. 

“Well, the Muggleborns tend to let those with low ability grow up. The purebloods sometimes don’t.”

“I just can’t believe that!” The exclamation was from Ginny, who looked horrified.

“It’s true, but stupid. Killing your own children doesn’t make genetic sense. Especially when a certain number of those squibs could have magic children. It’s a recessive gene,” she said, which garnered her blank looks from everyone except Harry, and even he wasn’t looking quite sure. She sighed and said, “The only thing squibs usually can do if they stay in the magical community is marry other squibs, and so only about one in five of the kids from these unions have magical children. Mathematically that’s not as it should be so there must be several genes involved. When squibs marry magical folk, about one fourth of the children are magical. When squibs give up and marry Muggles, the statistics are about the same as getting a magical child from Muggles. I rather think a lot of the Muggle-produced magical children are actually related to squib ancestors. On two sides. Fascinating stuff. I wish I had time to actually do the research right,” she added.

“Sheesh, Hermione,” Ron said, shaking his head.

“The thing is,” she went on, “I’d love to learn the mathematics of populations and endangered species. I am afraid the wizards will die out.”

Dead silence greeted this pronouncement. 

“You don’t mean it?” said Fred.

“Ridiculous,” echoed George.

“Well, it does depend on the continuation of several trends. First, they rejection of the Muggle born to prevent outside blood from entering the system. This cuts down on the variety of the genetic pool, and I’m assuming it contributes to the low birth rate. Then, we have to add in Voldemort’s campaign against everyone who opposes him. If he kills off a significant portion of the breeding population, and then rejects the outside blood, he could drive the population below the level where it could sustain growth. It would take a few hundred years–no, with wizarding life span, say, about five hundred to a thousand. He could have his reign of death for all those years and kill all the Muggles he wants to, but there’s billions of them. In the end, they won’t be extinct unless he’s eliminated human life from the planet. If he does that, he’s eliminated wizarding life, too. Sure, he’s going to have his version of fun, but at the price of extinction. I just don’t see why he has all those supporters. Don’t they think these things through?”

“They don’t pay attention to Muggle science,” Harry said.

“Who does?” George snorted.

“Magic does have a physics base. The more you know about science, the better your tricks and pranks would be,” Hermione suggested.

“That’s what I study during the summer,” Harry said. When they all looked up he added, “Science. Hermione gets me the books. Nothing else to do in the summer. The Dursleys would take away any magic books I brought, but it’s just like they don’t see the science ones.”

“We wondered if there was a scientific way to eliminate You Know Who,” Hermione told them.

“Haven’t come up with anything so far,” Harry said. “I’m not naturally good at science, because of the math element, but it’s interesting.”

“Then,” Hermione went on, “There’s the gay wizard problem.”

That brought another silent moment. Hermione took this as permission to go on. “Well, not really gay. Muggles have backed off on the statistic that ten percent of their population is gay–it’s based on old research and an old model. Now the figures say half that. But wizards and witches are more likely to be bisexual and so more likely to choose a partner of the same sex. Wizards and witches really do have ten to fifteen percent of the population paired with members of their own sex.”

“Oh, dear,” said Molly. And why was everyone looking at Fred and George like that?

“On top of that,” Hermione continued, not seeing the rather haunted look starting to appear on his listeners faces, “there are the Muggle born–and some wizards and witches–who leave the wizarding community. They go to the Ministry and ask that all their magic be taken from them, a memory spell cast, and in some cases they even go for chemical castration. They live out their lives as Muggles because they hate the wizarding world. Either they don’t have much magic and feel intimidated, or they can’t stand being treated like second class citizens, or they just miss the world they grew up in, or they are hiding out.”

“Does that really happen?” Ginny asked her father, her mouth a round O of shocked amazement. “Some people don’t WANT to be wizards?”

Arthur nodded. “For religious reasons, or because they don’t like wizard morality, or can’t cope with wizard ways, some of the Muggle born wizards and witches give up their abilities and go back to living like Muggles. Most Muggles grew up thinking witches are evil, you know, due to the religious problems that were well started a thousand years ago. Avoiding Muggle religion and the teachings presented in schools–they were all religious at that time--was one reason Hogwarts was started, in fact. Ironically, some Muggles leave because of persecution because they receive for being witches, from other magical folk. Some of the purebloods are worse than Muggles against our own kind. We are actually a violent culture, daughter. Mock the killing and brutality of the Muggle world as you will, but between magical creatures, spells gone awry and hatred, more wizards and witches die by violence than Muggles do.” Then he added, “The Ministry does not like to advertise the dangers we face, as you all know. Please don’t quote me.”

“Nothing new there,” Ginny said.

“The fanatical purebloods drive Muggle-borns out?” Ron asked.

“Oh, yes,” their father nodded. “About fifty years ago there were several secret organizations devoted to it. Burn houses down, steal, physical assault, were all methods used.”

“And it was the stupidest thing they could have done. Instead of going for hybrid vigor, they were trying to be inbred. They kept the families magical, but preserved some bad genetic traits, too.”

“A good many wizarding families have various forms of insanity that affect them. Look at Dumbledore. Greatest wizard of his time, but batty,” Charlie contributed.

“Shows up at the end of the longer lifespan we have,” Arthur said. “But, by studying Muggles....”

“Somehow, we’ve ended up on your hobbyhorse again, Arthur,” Molly gently teased.

“I know you think I focus too much on it, but Muggle knowledge may yet save the wizarding world, Molly.”

“That’s true,” Hermione said. “I'll do more research on endangered populations.”

Draco lay on the couch, his eyes wide open and his breath completely gone. By the time he remembered to breathe, his fair skin had flushed bright red and several of the fine veins in his eyeballs had burst, so that his eyes had gone utterly red where white usually was. He fought back a shiver, not wanting anyone to realize he was awake. There was no one to see, and yet he did not dare react. His conspiracy trained mind wondered if he had been set up, if they had brought up this subject just for his benefit. But they didn’t know how well he could hear, didn’t know he was awake, didn’t know he was coming here today. It filled him with utter horror, but he suspected that everything said had been said naturally.

His instincts said it was true. 

His older brothers had died stillborn. That’s what he had been told.

But if it were not true, then his father was a fool. And on the wrong side of the fight.

And he had thought he had come here with problems?

Ha.

If he waited here just a few more hours, his father would be home and he could go back. The Death Eaters wouldn’t dare amuse themselves with him while his father was there. He’d be safe.

Only he wouldn’t. 

He’d never be safe again. He had come here blindly in a panic, choosing a place where no one would imagine he might go. Now the harassment of a few Death Eaters wasn't even the horror on the top of his mind. He knew things that the Weasley's did not. The spells which were so specific about what children were allowed to gestate. After his father's wedding, his own father and Narcissa's has given “gifts” to insure his children would be “proper.” The bride and groom had been spelled so that their children would have intelligence (but not more than their own), blond hair, height, general health, and magical ability. Anyone conceived which did not match these requirements just...wasn't. He had always known the reasons why he was an only child. 

It was clear to him that this sort of thing hadn't happened to the Weasley's. He fought back a nervous giggle at the thought and went back to considering the conversation he had overheard.

The picture the Weasley's painted was one he had not considered. To opposed the dark lord was horrifying but he knew in his heart that what the Weasley's said was true. He'd heard with his own ears Voldemort's plans, after all. 

He was going to have to change sides. Or wait for Voldemort to win and then develop a cadre to oppose him. Easiest was just to make sure that Harry won. 

And...he wouldn't have to marry Pansy, as their parents were planning. He could go find a witch he really liked and they wouldn't do the marriage spells which limited reproduction. He could fill the manor with a brood as big as the Weasley's. Bigger. He rather liked the thought of himself as a patriarch.

Not that he was competitive or anything. But several children made sense. They could get positions in the ministry, and other important jobs, which would spread his own influence. He lay, his brain busy, his decision forming. Since he was here, he'd use it. Ingratiate himself into the Weasley group. Make them change their mind about him, perhaps play the angle of abused boy. It was somewhat true, after all.

He tried to focus again on what the Weasley's were saying, but the clatter of clearing away and the running water, covered the conversation and he closed his eyes. He wondered how long he could stay. There were other things to learn, he was sure. He had only planned to close his eyes for a moment, but he found himself drifting off to sleep. 

.


End file.
